The Next Killer App: Google Kindness Translator

The Next Killer App: Google Kindness Translator

Thanks to my new Google Kindness Translator, Davie is about to avoid a nasty fight with his roomie Brad. Davie texted into the Kindness Translator on his phone: “If u don’t clean up yr trash tonight, I’m throwing u out.” But the message Brad got was, “Bro wanna do za for dnr?” Problem avoided – well, for the moment anyway.

Thanks to my new Google Kindness Translator, Davie is about to avoid a nasty fight with his roomie Brad. Davie texted into the Kindness Translator on his phone: “If u don’t clean up yr trash tonight, I’m throwing u out.” But the message Brad got was, “Bro wanna do za for dnr?” Problem avoided – well, for the moment anyway.

You have probably heard of one of the great game changer apps called Google Translate. You can type or say anything into your phone and with the press of a button, Google Translate instantly converts your words into your choice from more than 130 languages, even Sanskrit.

A few years ago, I wrote about a handy upgrade of this service called Google Translate – Family Edition. It’s perfect for helping parents understand what their teenage son actually means when he grunts one-word replies like “whatever” or ”dude” to your question, “When do you plan to do your homework, Nathan?”

I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve almost finished developing an even more powerful version of Google Translate. I think it’s going to be another game changer for kids and adults alike. I call it the Google Kindness Translator. It takes one person’s abusive or argumentative language and, with the press of a button on your phone, converts it into a kinder, more sensitive alternative translation, thereby turning a potentially acrimonious confrontation into a harmonious dialogue.

I came up with my idea in the most unlikely of situations: during a racquetball game. I’ve played with the same group of guys for several years. They’re all great people – well, except for Fred, that is. (Fred is a curmudgeon.) Sometimes, one of the fellows will blurt out something in the heat of the moment he really didn’t mean. That’s when things can quickly get a little chippy.

It all started when Roger hit the ball full force, and it accidentally plunged into the small of Larry’s back. Larry, suddenly in excruciating pain, shouted out, well, I’d rather not print what came out of his mouth. Let’s just say I’m glad no impressionable young kids were within earshot.

Then Larry glared at Roger and complained, “That hurt like the dickens dude! Look where you’re hitting the ball!” To which Roger snarkily replied, “Well, you shouldn’t have been standing in the way of my shot.” Larry was just about to hurl some inflammatory words back in Roger’s face when I quickly intervened: “Larry, when Roger said that you shouldn’t have been standing in the way of his shot, what he meant to say was ‘Oh my, I am deeply sorry I hit you. Are you okay, buddy? Please accept my apology.’ ” 

Roger looked at me a bit confused, but then Larry said to Roger, “It’s okay. These things happen.” And tempers cooled down quickly. (This really happened as described.) That’s when I saw the potential for a new app that translates angry words into kind ones. I think this could be the next killer app. My new Kindness Translator is still in beta. But check out these extremely encouraging translations from some of my test subjects.

Eleanor is having a nasty shouting match with her daughter Nina. If only Eleanor had tried my Kindness Translator before screaming, “As long as you live in MY house, you’ll do as I tell you, you little self-absorbed prima donna snot!” The app would have converted her harangue into “Nina, I deeply apologize for not being more clear in my expectations. That’s my fault. What I was trying to say is, would you be open to scooping the litter box, since, after all, Buttons is your cat? What do you say? Love you.”

Eleanor is having a nasty shouting match with her daughter Nina. If only Eleanor had tried my Kindness Translator before screaming, “As long as you live in MY house, you’ll do as I tell you, you little self-absorbed prima donna snot!” The app would have converted her harangue into “Nina, I deeply apologize for not being more clear in my expectations. That’s my fault. What I was trying to say is, would you be open to scooping the litter box, since, after all, Buttons is your cat? What do you say? Love you.”

A husband was about to tell his wife, “Seriously, how much longer will you be before you pick an outfit? JUST PICK ONE, for Christ’s sake. It’s been 45 minutes and you’re still trying on blouses. None of them are going to make you look slim, okay? We’re going to be late for the party – as usual.”

But instead, he quietly spoke those words into the Kindness Translator app on his phone, pressed a button, and voilà. His wife heard instead, “Honey, gosh you look fantastic in any of the eleven outfits you’ve tried on. But just take your time. I’d rather be standing here in our walk-in closet with you than at that silly New Year’s Eve party, anyway. I love you.” And with a press of a button, their marriage was saved – for another evening at least.

A retiree had been patiently waiting for seven minutes for another driver to back out of their parking spot, so he could pull into it. But just as he was about to pull in, another driver came racing in from nowhere and took his spot. As the parking spot stealer exited his car, the retiree was preparing to get up in his grill and bark, “Hey, buddy. I was here first. I’ve been sitting here for the past seven minutes waiting for this spot to open up. So, find another spot, or the next parking spot you’ll be looking for is at the Emergency Room.”

But in a moment of clear thinking, he whispered into the Kindness Translator I had installed on his phone instead. Out came a much more restrained message: “Gosh, I had been hoping to take that spot. But kudos to you for being so quick on the accelerator. Are you a professional racecar driver? Hope you find the perfect gift you’re looking for at the mall, sir. Have a nice day.” No one got hurt. And no cars got keyed. Problem avoided.

My new Kindness Translator is in beta. It still has a few bugs. For example, I tried employing it at a recent Trump rally. I pointed my phone at Trump as he went on one of his usual incoherent, rambling rants: “I’m a very stable genius. Only I can save America. I’m smarter than all the generals. Blacks love me. I don’t have a racist bone in my body.”

But the translation came out as follows: “I’m a total moron, a vengeful narcissist, and a bigot. I lost the election and lied about it. Give me all your money.”  On second thought, maybe the app is working just fine.

I still have a lot of work to do before this becomes available to the public. I’m convinced my killer app will bring people closer together and maybe help our divided nation heal some of its longstanding wounds – or at the very least help me talk my way out of a future speeding ticket.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

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A Special Valentine’s Day Poem For My SWEETHEART

A Special Valentine’s Day Poem For My SWEETHEART

On this very special Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share a special poem I wrote for my wife, expressing just how much I love her. I guess I’ve always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. Hope it warms your heart. – Tim

Darling,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Sugar is sweet

And so is high fructose corn syrup

Which from a manufacturing perspective

Is easier to handle and cheaper to make

Using an acid-enzyme process

In which corn is milled to extract corn starch

Which is then acidified

To begin breaking up the existing carbohydrates

With high-temperature enzymes added

To further metabolize the starch

And convert the resulting sugars to fructose

To which various enzymes are then added

After which it is filtered using activated carbon

Then demineralized using ion-exchange resins

And run over immobilized xylose isomerase

Which turns the sugars to ~50–52% glucose

With some unconverted oligosaccharides

And 42% fructose

The sweetness of which

Is comparable to sucrose

But not as sweet as you

Love,

Your SWEETHEART

[NOTE: This week’s column was written by my life-long friend and fellow humorist, Steve Fisher. Steve is the person who inspired me to create View from the Bleachers back in 2009, and he is the funniest person I have ever known. Steve gave me permission to share his love poem with my VFTB readers. Thanks, Steve! – TEJ ]

 

 

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Apparently My Wife Doesn’t Like It When I Kiss Other Women

Apparently My Wife Doesn’t Like It When I Kiss Other Women

Sometimes I can disappoint my wife and, without intending to, hurt her feelings. For example, recently she was telling me something about something – not really sure what her point was. I was watching a football game at the time. Then she asked me a question about something or other. Apparently, “Sure, honey, that’s great” was not the response she was looking for when she asked me (I later learned) “When do you plan to start making dinner?” So, she got a little peeved, if you can believe this, just because I had not listened to a single word she’d been saying for the past five minutes. In my defense, it was a playoff game.

Don’t get me wrong. My wife is a wonderful person. But she asked that I not mention her by name in this story and therefore will be referred to as “Joanna.” I love Mic – er, Joanna dearly. But sometimes, it seems I can’t quite measure up to her lofty expectations of her husband. Now and then she’ll roll her eyes in annoyance over the most trivial infractions. Like the time I left the toilet seat up after I used it. Or the time I ate the last slice of German Chocolate cake without consulting her first. Or the time I kissed another woman.

Perhaps that last example warrants additional clarification. I couldn’t very well deny that I had kissed another woman because, technically, I did it right in front of Joanna. She saw the whole thing. I must have misread the other woman’s buying signals because when I kissed her, like Joanna, she was none too pleased about it. This woman, who I’ll call “Sarah,” was, to my surprise, so put off by my sudden romantic overture that she slapped me across the face. But I have an explanation for my actions: She was really attractive. (My wife has informed me that does not make what I did okay. I guess I just disappointed her again.)

In retrospect, I can see how my actions might have been slightly hurtful to Joanna. Perhaps I should have asked her for permission before I took Sarah in my arms, caressed her hair, and kissed her. I probably did not make things any better when later that same evening, I approached Sarah again and once again planted a passionate kiss on her lips. My wife caught me in the act this second time as well. (She sure can be a busybody.) My encore kissing performance just made matters worse. I now appreciate how, from Joanna’s perspective, I probably mishandled this affair, because, to be honest, I didn’t give a second’s thought about how my actions would impact my life partner.

I imagine Joanna was asking herself, “Who is this man I thought I knew? Can’t he see I’m right here?!?” I should add that on my second romantic overture, as our mouths came together, Sarah didn’t slap me. She didn’t push me away. Quite the contrary. She acted as if she really liked it – a lot. She put her arms around me and swooned. It was magical – except for the small part about Joanna being a witness to this scene. I was concerned that she might not speak to me for the rest of the evening – or make me dinner.

I am not proud to admit that I pursued this tawdry affair for three weeks. I only saw Sarah on Friday and Saturday evenings, and on a couple Sunday afternoons. Before each visit, I rehearsed what I was going to say to her to win her heart again. And my lines worked perfectly. Each rendezvous was as exciting as the previous one. But after three weeks, Sarah abruptly broke it off, without so much as a goodbye kiss. She decided she had to put our affair behind her. I never saw her again. I would never feel the touch of her ruby red lips or her hands as they forcefully slapped my face, ever again.

I have to say, Joanna was surprisingly forgiving. Because after having witnessed me kiss Sarah not once but twice, on the way home, she barely brought it up. What a great gal! But to be honest, I’m not really sure why any of this should have bothered her in the first place. For starters, Joanna and I weren’t even married at the time. We were just dating. I had never said I wouldn’t see other people.

Spoiler Alert: When Joanna and I were dating, I got cast as Sky Masterson in a community theater production of Guys And Dolls. My character had to kiss his female co-star, Sarah Brown, twice in each of our show’s eight performances. Hey, I was just doing my job!

Spoiler Alert: When Joanna and I were dating, I got cast as Sky Masterson in a community theater production of Guys And Dolls. My character had to kiss his female co-star, Sarah Brown, twice in each of our show’s eight performances. Hey, I was just doing my job!

Oh, and I’m not sure if this next part is important, but the woman I kissed was a fellow actor in a community theater production of Guys And Dolls we were in, in Miami, FL, the city where Joanna and I first met. We were on stage in front of 400 people just performing our lines, which included two kissing scenes.

So, if you ask me, I really think my wife should have taken up her concerns with the director, not me. I was just following the script.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

[Author’s Postscript: The story above is 100% true. In the play, my character, a rogue, suave gambler named Sky Masterson, falls in love with a character exactly his opposite: an upright, devoutly religious Salvation Army worker named, you guessed it, SARAH Brown.

Our characters kissed twice in each of our eight performances, which were performed on Friday and Saturday nights and matinees on Sunday. In the first instance, the virtuous, innocent Sarah is mortified by Sky’s slick, overly bold unexpected kiss, so much so that she slaps him in the face afterward. And my co-star did not hold back! But later in the play, the two characters fall deeply in love and Sky kisses her again, this time, with her swooning in his arms – just the way my wife swoons every time I kiss her. Um, sort of . – TEJ]

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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2022

The Burden of Being a Good Sport

The Burden of Being a Good Sport

If you look up “Good Sport” in the dictionary, it should simply show a photo of me getting hit with a cream pie, then smiling afterwards and saying, “Man, you guys got me. Well played.” It’s a part of my quirky personality and the reason my kids refuse to be seen with me.

If you look up “Good Sport” in the dictionary, it should simply show a photo of me getting hit with a cream pie, then smiling afterwards and saying, “Man, you guys got me. Well played.” It’s a part of my quirky personality and the reason my kids refuse to be seen with me.

I’m not the most handsome man in the world, nor the smartest, nor the most successful at business. But there is one area where I shine: I’m a good sport. I can take a practical joke in stride, laugh it off, and not seek revenge (most of the time).

Throughout my entire adult life, friends and co-workers have delighted in pulling practical jokes on me or otherwise looking for ways to thrust me into embarrassing situations. They know I‘ll laugh along with everyone else at my very public humiliation. I really don’t really mind. I believe that they’d never attempt these stunts if they didn’t like me. Or maybe they viewed me as an easy mark. Yeah, now that I process this further, the latter explanation is starting to make a lot more sense to me.

Ladies and gentlemen: the stories you are about to hear are true. Only the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

In my freshman year at UVa, my dormmates signed me up for a computer dating event without my knowledge. I was understandably mystified to receive a letter that I had a date scheduled for Friday evening, since my social calendar was wide open from September through the end of Spring semester. I donned a suit and tie and went to the dance to meet my mystery match.

30 minutes into our first (and this may surprise you, our LAST) date, this guy storms in, gets in my face, and shouts, “That’s my fiancé, buddy. This date is over.” Apparently, the two were indeed engaged and thought it would be fun to see who they each got matched up with. Lucky me. I just wish I had had the presence of mind to have a snappy comeback like, “Hey buddy, she may be your fiancé but tonight she’s MY date. So take a number.” Several hilarious snappy comebacks would come to mind after our aborted date. But I didn’t say anything in the moment because, um, I was a good sport.

I was pretty OCD about grades in college, and often pulled all-nighters to cram for final exams. After one such ordeal, I came back to the apartment and collapsed on the couch. I was dead to the world when my roommates (Larry, Assad, and Bill) hovered over me and clapped loudly. As I came to in a fright, they snapped a photo. Ok, ha ha.

Well, two weeks later, I find Larry, Assad, and Bill huddled around our 13” black & white TV. They appeared rivetted. I asked what was so newsworthy on this lame cable channel at 3pm on a Thursday. Bill answered with earnest, “Tim, you gotta check this out. This station has some fantastic programming.” Intrigued, I peered over his shoulder as every 10 seconds a new screen would appear announcing local matters of no import. “These guys need to get a life,” I mused.

I always wanted to be on television – just not looking like this. Maybe some Hollywood agent would catch this program and offer me a comic gig with Jim Carrey.

I always wanted to be on television – just not looking like this. Maybe some Hollywood agent would catch this program and offer me a comic gig with Jim Carrey.

Then came a series of birthday announcements featuring images of adorable young children with messages like, “Happy Birthday, Melody Bishop, age 7” and “Birthday Wishes to Amy Johnson, age 5” followed by… “Happy Birthday, Timmy Jones, age 20.”

Staring back at me was the photo my roomies had taken after my all-nighter. I looked like a crazed serial killer, eyes maniacal, pointing at my next victim. The guys at the station evidently loved the photo because they continued to air my birthday message for three weeks. But I laughed because that’s what good sports do.

College was truly a training ground for me in becoming a really good sport. One morning while heading to classes, I noticed a giant 3’ x 2’ poster plastered to our mailboxes, with another extremely unflattering photo of ME!  Beneath my visage was a disquieting headline:

COME HEAR TIM “BARFY” JONES LECTURE STUDENTS AND FACULTY ON ICE CANDLES AND SNOW PICNICS AND THEIR EFFECT ON THE OUTER COSMOS. Tuesday night, 7pm at Wilson Hall.

My roomies were pranking me again – and they were just getting started. At my first class – a 300-seat lecture hall – this same giant poster was plastered on all the walls and even on the professor’s lectern. Same thing for my next class, and  the next… you get the point. Even the hallways were covered with this same mortifying poster. I vividly remember sitting behind two girls who were staring at the poster commenting, “This guy looks like a dork. What a freak show!” Well played, roomies.

In grad school, my girlfriend pulled a most unexpected prank for my birthday. She came to my apartment, handed me a rabbit, shouted “Happy Birthday!” and walked away. I thought, “Somebunny’s pulling my leg,” only it wasn’t a joke. The rabbit really was her birthday gift. (Rabbit cage, food and $600 in subsequent vet’s bills not included.) My relationship with this rabbit would continue three years longer than that with my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend.

This is exactly how I felt each time I had to dunk myself in the icy cold fountain, for a worthy cause. Great fun. And I found my subsequent pneumonia to be hysterical.

This is exactly how I felt each time I had to dunk myself in the icy cold fountain, for a worthy cause. Great fun. And I found my subsequent pneumonia to be hysterical.

My reputation for being a good sport followed me into the working world. During a United Way fundraising campaign, my boss signed me up for the “Dollars for Dunking” event. Every time someone donated $100, I would take a plunge into an outdoor fountain – in January – in a suit and tie. Let me just say, fundraising records were broken that day.

But nothing will quite match my ultimate indignity – the time my (formerly) dear friend Mark volunteered me to assist a street magician with his act. The fellow needed a sucker for his grand finale, which sadly wasn’t to make me disappear. That would have been a far less humiliating outcome.

As the performer scanned the crowd of 500, Mark thrust my hand high and shouted, “Tim will do it!”. What ensued was nothing short of a stripping of my dignity – and apparel. I was helpless as this street performer coaxed me into removing first my shoes, then socks, shirt, undershirt, pants…until all that remained to cover my nearly naked body were my tighty-whities. The crowd went wild, chanting, “Take it off, Tim.”  To find out whether I ultimately succumbed to their wild pleas, you’ll just have to read the full story here.

Being a good sport has defined my nature throughout life. I really have not minded all the embarrassment – and occasional humiliation – inflicted by supposed friends and obviously jealous co-workers. After all, it just means they like me…. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2021. Edited by Betsy Jones.

Teens, When Lying to Your Parents, You Need to Up Your Game

Teens, When Lying to Your Parents, You Need to Up Your Game

[The following true story is based on a time when a good friend of mine’s then 16-year-old daughter tried to wriggle out of several lies she told her parents about a “sleepover” at a friend’s house, which in actuality was a party with several boys and alcohol, while her friend’s parents were out of town for the evening, unaware of what was taking place at their house.]

Hey, teenagers, don’t you hate it when you make up a perfectly good lie to get out of trouble, and your parents refuse to believe you? Well, this just means you need to work on your prevarication skills. Either that, or you could try telling your parents the truth for once. Nah, forget it. That would never work.

Hey, teenagers, don’t you hate it when you make up a perfectly good lie to get out of trouble, and your parents refuse to believe you? Well, this just means you need to work on your prevarication skills. Either that, or you could try telling your parents the truth for once. Nah, forget it. That would never work.

Hey, girl. Wazzup? Sorry to hear your parents busted you over your harmless shindig last weekend at Monica’s house. I can’t believe they completely lost it just because you girls had a few boys join you for your sleepover while her parents were out of town.

You did absolutely nothing wrong – if you overlook the minor fact that you failed to mention that the get-together would include boys… and alcohol… and weed… and cops. It was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding. It could have happened to anybody.

Parents are so lame, right? With all their Nazi rules about showing them respect and cleaning your room and telling you to get off your phone even though you’ve only been on it for an hour and a half, and not letting you do sleepover parties with boys, beer pong, and weed. So unfair, I agree.

Hey, next time you plan to make up a fiction to conceal your plans for an epic underage beer bash, perhaps you should invest a little more time on your fake backstory to avoid getting caught. Let’s go over what happened, and just maybe, we can piece together where your deception went off the rails.

Before you headed out on your weekend of teenage debauchery, I liked the way you chose to compliment your parents, even though they probably found it a bit odd, given it was the first time you had said anything nice to them in ten months. But when you said, “Mom, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you look so pretty,” it might have come off sounding a tad bit more credible had you not told her this while she still had her hair in curlers and her face slathered in Noxzema skin cream. Just saying.

Then, when you were at Monica’s house, remember how your mom texted you, asking for her parents’ names and phone number in case of emergency? I applaud your fast thinking, given that Monica’s parents were in Chicago, 1,800 miles away, with no idea of the party you girls were instigating. But perhaps you shouldn’t have panicked and given your mom the phone number of your friend Chad, who was also at the party.

Who could have possibly foreseen that your mom might then call that very same phone number to ask Monica’s parents if they’d like her to bring a homemade dessert for the sleepover. Imagine your mom’s confusion when Chad, doing his best middle-aged dad impersonation, lowered his voice an octave and replied, “Nah, thanks, girl. But we’re chill. The girls are having a crazy’ lit’ time. Later, gator.”

Then, do you remember what happened when your mom asked Monica’s dad if there would be any alcohol served at this sleepover? Drawing a blank? Let me refresh your memory. Dad, er Chad, explained, “No way, mom. I made sure to lock up all the good stuff in the fridge.” Can you see how that might have elevated your mom’s anxiety ever so slightly?

Do you notice anything missing from this photo of a party of teenagers? If you guessed, “Where are the parents?”, you’re a winner. These underage kids are having a fun time chillaxing with 45 of their closest friends. If you ask me, they’re just having good clean fun – and perhaps just a little too much tequila.

Do you notice anything missing from this photo of a party of teenagers? If you guessed, “Where are the parents?”, you’re a winner. These underage kids are having a fun time chillaxing with 45 of their closest friends. If you ask me, they’re just having good clean fun – and perhaps just a little too much tequila.

Then barely twenty seconds after she got off the phone from Dad/Chad, she called you, remember? She asked you, “How old is Monica’s dad? He sounds rather young.” Then your brain misfired, and you blurted out, “Monica’s dad can’t talk now. He had to go to work.” 

If I have my notes correct, it was around 10:45pm when your mom shocked you by showing up at Monica’s house, because you had forgotten your sleeping bag. Imagine her dismay when she learned that apparently both parents had to leave the house suddenly for work emergencies – and would not, according to you, be home for another two hours.

If you ask me, it is entirely plausible that there might be a work emergency at 10:45pm on a Saturday night – especially for Monica’s dad, who is an accountant, not to mention for her stay-at-home mom. Like you, I would have been furious at your mom for not believing your lies. The fact that she feels she can’t trust you is totally her fault.

That’s about the time when your mom, walking through the front door, noticed that there were six boys on the premises. I think you almost had her convinced when you made up that narrative about how the entire group of them had just stopped by moments before, asking for help with their geometry homework. Too bad your mom could not hear your very believable explanation over the six 16-year-olds boys singing and dancing along to K-pop songs by BTS blaring on the karaoke machine at 160 decibels.

I also have to applaud your quick cerebration when your mom saw the beer keg on the back patio. I’m not sure I would have been as imaginative as you to come up with your almost convincing fabrication that Monica’s dad had bought it for a neighborhood block party later that week. I think your mom would have fallen for it, had it not been for your idiot friend Troy, who unwittingly approached her and said, and I quote, “Hey, you must be Monica’s mom. I thought you were in Chicago. Welcome back. Care for a brewski? Or are you more of a Tequila mom?” I understand now why Troy had to repeat 9th grade.

Where are the parents, you ask? On a weekend visit to Chicago. But don’t worry. Their 16-year-old daughter Monica promised them she’d just have a quiet sleepover with a couple friends. She’ll even vacuum the house. Such a responsible girl.

Where are the parents, you ask? On a weekend visit to Chicago. But don’t worry. Their 16-year-old daughter Monica promised them she’d just have a quiet sleepover with a couple friends. She’ll even vacuum the house. Such a responsible girl.

Still, I bet this would have all blown over, had it not been for the two cop cars that pulled up in response to a neighbor’s complaint about the ruckus. Who knew that police dogs could detect the smell of pot so quickly? Impressive. Too bad your mom didn’t buy your next anecdote about how you had no idea what it was and thought it was some sort of seasoning to add flavor to your salad. A valiant Hail Mary try, girl.

I’m relieved to hear the cops let all of you off with just a warning. But I’m sorry your parents have grounded you for two months. I guess that means you’ll miss the secret rave party at Jessica’s house next weekend – I mean, the all-nighter where just girls will all be working on that science fair team project. I hope your mom changes her mind. You might start by complimenting her on her cooking. Good luck.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2021